


Sincerely, a Ghost

by Toryb



Series: Dear Angel [1]
Category: Archie Comics, Archie Comics & Related Fandoms, Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Blood, Dark!Jughead, F/M, Not for the faint of heart, dexter-ish jughead, idealization of betty cooper, serial killer!jughead, who kills for aesthetic but also people people are bad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-20
Updated: 2017-10-20
Packaged: 2019-01-20 11:01:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12431400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toryb/pseuds/Toryb
Summary: Dear Betty,I’ve never done something like this before. But I hope you’ll forgive me for my shaky hands and lackluster prose. You are truly an angel, uncorrupted by the world. I wish I could lock you up, my sweet song bird, so you would sing gentle things only to me. But I do not deserve such beauty in my presence. I’m a demon in man’s skin.I do hope you enjoyed the lilies. I know they’re your favorite.Sincerely,A Ghost





	Sincerely, a Ghost

**Author's Note:**

> Hey hey all. So I asked on tumblr if this would be something people were interested in and I got a lot of people saying yes. This is the first in a series I'm going to do of serial killer!Jughead Jones. This is the tame start but I'm warning you now it is slowly going to involve into a lot of creepiness, sex, and dark/deranged characters. (Betty isn't the angel she seems). Obviously this is an unhealthy relationship, but I love writing darkness.
> 
> (Quick warning: There is an illusion to child molestation. Nothing graphic and its the reason Jughead kills someone)

What he did was not a desire, nor a compulsion. It was an art. Blood splattered against a beautiful mosaic backdrop, a body crumpled in a heap on an imported carpet, and a knife, cleaned of prints, jutting out from a cracked skull. Nothing could inspire him quite like these nights did.

The written word came effortlessly to him, much like the murders. Art had been his solace in a world cruel and unjust. Beauty was a singular light, offering redemption. The first letter had been a desperate act to clear his conscience, hastily scrawled on the back of a napkin from Pop Tate’s dinner and slipped into the mailbox, addressed to the only New York paper he could name off hand. When the story was published, his words at last appreciated, the addiction to fame slowly crept up, feeding the greedy demon in his soul.

So, he made art again.

Again.

And Again.

And Again.

Next week marked his two-year anniversary. But for once, he lacked inspiration. Whatever muse he clung to had slowly been fading. Soon he feared she would be completely snuffed out. No doubt this was his own doing. Using and using and using until he sucked the world dry. Above all, his art lacked purpose. He hungered for the familiar rush, the high of justice and beauty, a cleansing of his own deadly sins.

It certainly wasn’t the chase that thrilled him. Every police officer after him stumbled over their own shoe laces. Not that he made the job easy. No, not a single piece of evidence that could identify him was left at the crime scene, and the letters were either typed or written in his left hand. He came and went, snuffing out a soul before fleeing back into the shadows. Ghost, the world called him. So, Ghost, he would be.

Well, not all the time. Sometimes he was just Jughead Jones: the man who lived in the cottage far away from the city center and wrote novels. Famous for his hermitage, only the pizza delivery boy really knew his address. When he spent his days in the city, he always went to the same place: a local coffee shop close to the paper. This made it much easy to pick up something hot off the presses and smile at the headlines.

_Ghost Strikes Again! Corpse Found Mangled_

Jughead frowned looking at the black print. Mangled the body was not. Staged. Thoughtful. Elegant. That was what his work was. The new reporter taking his letters, Chuck Clayton, was someone he did not like. They didn’t understand him, not like Phillip had. But that man had met an unfortunate end. He stepped too close and Ghost rarely liked company.

A woman sat across the way from him, studying the paper almost as intently as he had. The sunlight hit her hair like a glowing halo. He wanted to reach out, push away whatever made her look so unsettled.

Usually never one to speak to strangers, he much preferred to watch and wait, Jughead heard the words come from his mouth before he could stop himself. “It’s crazy, right? The killings?”

Her green eyes pierced through his soul. It was like she could see into his very depths. For a moment, the demon inside him retreated, sizzling under her strong gaze. At long last he felt inspired again, creativity surging through his veins. No doubt this woman was an angel on earth, come just for him as a beacon of beauty.

“It is. No one can catch him either because he just…well like the name implies,” she gave a sheepish laugh, “He’s a ghost.”

Her laughter. He needed to hear it again. Forever maybe, looped over and over like a record player. Only for him and no one else, locked away like Rapunzel so nothing could corrupt her pure innocence.

With boldness, he had never experienced before, Jughead moved to sit across from her. It was intoxicating being so close. He craved to reach out, be gentle with her porcelain skin. Or maybe swipe a knife across, watching as the red blood stained alabaster. Would she crack like an antique china doll, crumble in his filthy grasp?

“Is it weird to say I think what he does is almost poetic?” she kept talking, and he wished she would never stop. “I mean obviously it’s terrible, he’s killing people. But the way he does it…it’s…different. Weirdly beautiful. He plans everything so methodically, you know? And right down the color of the carpet he gets every single speck of grain right.”

She understood. His angel understood him, his art, his passion. Surely the world was watching over him, giving him such inspiration in his time of need. For her, he would move mountains.

“No, I understand. I think it is too. Maybe it’s because I used to read Edgar Allen Poe before going to bed as a kid, but macabre stuff is right up my alley,” he smiles gently and watches the fear leave her eyes. He wants it back. “I’m Jughead Jones by the way.”

“Betty Cooper!” she smiled brightly, “I actually write for the paper too. I wish I was lucky enough to get my hands on this story though. I know most people think it’s cursed after Phillip kind of…met a really unhappy ending, but it would be my big break. I’ve always wanted to work the crime beat.”

“And instead some guy name Chuck Clayton is writing?” he raised an eyebrow, “How many asses did he have to kiss to get that job?”

Betty rolled her eyes. “All of them. He’s friends with the editor in chief’s son so he gets all the good stories and I’m stuck with stuff on nearly the last page,” she blushed and looked away, momentarily embarrassed. “You didn’t come sit here to listen to me complain about my job though. Sorry about that.”

If there was something she wanted, he would give it to her. Wheels were already turning, calculating his next move. Chuck never did anything wrong, not that he knew of, and a man with a name like that would never be art. He would ruin it, turn it to filth. But there were other means of this. How could the world deny the request of a simple artist?

They spent many hours talking that day. Jughead memorized every breath, every flutter of her lashes, every minuscule micro expression. When the coffee was too hot she blew on it four times. When the bell rang at noon, she hummed along with it. If they spoke about something of interest to her, she would lean a little closer and their hands would nearly touch.

Her phone buzzed gently on the table, revealing a screensaver of lilies.

“Are they your favorite flower?” he asked.

Betty nodded, silencing the alarm. “They are. My best friend Veronica always buys me some for my birthday. Which is ridiculous but sweet.”

“I like it. My favorite are blue bells.”

She smiled again, but this time it faltered. “I have to go Jughead. I promised my mom I’d call her tonight, but um…do you think I could maybe…”

Without hesitation, he penned his number on the napkin, handing it to her wordless. She leaned forward and kissed his cheek before scurrying out of the building. A fire ignited in his soul. If someone in the café listened closely they could hear the demon’s screech. The touch of an angel would cleanse his wicked soul.

A few nights later, his work came easier than ever. The woman had left her window open, an ignorant and cocky mistake that would force her to pay the heaviest price of them all. He was silent, having memorized every creak in her floor boards already. She didn’t scream when the knife met her throat. There wasn’t time.

He was much more delicate with her than the others, setting her lithe frame up at the tea parlor. He filled her cup with her favorite: an imported jasmine. The record player scratched a tune familiar, one he hummed along with, working diligently as he threaded the needle in and out of her tight skin. The irony made him shiver. A woman who loved tea so desperately but could no longer taste it.

All that was left were the finishing details. Tearing a sheet from her signature stationary, he scribbled out the nightly story, never forgetting a single gory detail. He slipped it into the envelope addressing it to the angel at the newspaper. It was her he wanted to write his story now. Not some miserable beast.

He stepped forward, cutting the locket from his victim’s neck. He opened the antique silver, tutting gently. Two lovely children with bright green eyes. Neither of which belonged to her. What naughty things did she do with them when the world was silent and they couldn’t scream?

From his bag, he procured the final piece. A single white lily, placed dead center in the expensive crystal vase. A lily for his angel. His art was for her alone now. He hoped his letter would find her well.

_Dear Betty,_

_I’ve never done something like this before. But I hope you’ll forgive me for my shaky hands and lackluster prose. You are truly an angel, uncorrupted by the world. I wish I could lock you up, my sweet song bird, so you would sing gentle things only to me. But I do not deserve such beauty in my presence. I’m a demon in man’s skin._

_I do hope you enjoyed the lilies. I know they’re your favorite._

_Sincerely,_

_A Ghost_

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr at @tory-b!


End file.
